


One of These Days

by grandfatherclock



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 18:58:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandfatherclock/pseuds/grandfatherclock
Summary: Beau and Caleb try to comfort each other, and it goes surprisingly well.





	One of These Days

**Author's Note:**

> Regarding the 'Implied/Referenced Self-Harm' tag—I understand that isn't necessarily what happened to Caleb in relation to the crystals. That being said, Caleb's actions in this fic regarding his nervous habit of aggressively scratching his arms might be triggering for some people in the same way that 'Implied/Referenced Self-Harm' is. There is nothing more explicit than what is in canon.

Fjord had promised Beau they would celebrate their latest victory at his preferred trashy dive bar. He’d led them into his corner of Port Damali, insisting that  _The Drunken Sailor_ wasn’t as bad as the name implied. Beau had retorted that she hoped it was, and Jester had beamed. Jester had said, “That’s really funny, Beau,” and she had felt her heart stutter.

Then, predictably, shit hit the fan.

 

There was  _literal shit_ hitting the fan. Fjord suddenly became very ill, and it turned out the knife that had sliced through him repeatedly in their earlier brawl was poisoned. Jester and Caduceus were all out of healing spells, so Jester found a shady old woman from a local convenience store who gave her medication. To her credit, it stopped the diarrhea, but it also made Fjord as high as a fucking kite.

Normally, Beau would’ve thoroughly enjoyed this sequence of events. She would’ve been completely down to listen to Jester narrate _Tusk Love_ while Fjord alternated between protesting weakly and being unconscious. But her face was battered and bruised, and she wasn’t really in the mood to listen to their flirtations. She was in the mood to _drink_.

Unfortunately, she seemed to the only one. Nott, who was normally so reliable in this department, was exhausted and collapsed into the first bed she came across. Caduceus wanted to pray to the Wildmother. And Yasha… Yasha did what Yasha tended to do. Yasha disappeared.

( _No judgement_ , Beau reminded herself. _She lost her closest friend in the entire world. No fucking judgement_.)

And so, that left the distracted wizard sitting next to her.

 

They’d been here for nearly an hour and Caleb had barely acknowledged her presence.

Beau cleared her throat, but Caleb didn't raise his head. _Typical_ , she thought bitterly. She stared moodily at the bottom of her glass, the alcohol not nearly enough to numb the stinging pain emanating from all over her body. She could feel the angry bruises decorating her left shoulder blade, the crook of her neck, the side of her back. The bandages on the cut across the side of her hip did nothing for the pain. It was a temporary stopgap until Jester and Caduceus could heal her completely, and it hurt like a bitch. She remembered their relieved faces, them leaning over her, when she’d finally become conscious.

Caleb had been kneeling next to her as well, his face utterly distraught. When she’d managed a soft, “What’s up, asshole?”, he’d only nodded at her distantly, before getting up and walking away.

Which hadn’t made sense, until she’d seen the ashes just a couple metres away from her.

 

“You’re brooding,” Caleb said, his soft, lilting voice interrupting her thoughts. He put the book he’d been so engrossed with on the table, and wiped the sweat off his brow. “Are we done here?” He looked at her expectantly.

Beau felt her fingers almost unconsciously clench into fists. He finished his reading, so of course he was done hanging out with her. She leaned back into her chair almost too casually. “I mean, you’ve barely been _here_ ”—she gestured to the bar—“but yeah, man, you can fucking go.” The edge in her voice, which was always there, sounded so bitter to her own ears that it made her want to wince.

Caleb didn’t respond to her provocation, instead opting to clasp his hands together under his chin and examine her. It was so unbearably hot that even he’d taken off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his black turtleneck. He still wore the bandages along his lower arms, though from the sweat and the sheer length of time that they’d been wrapped on him they were starting to become loose. “You’re upset with me,” he said.

Beau looked away, biting her bottom lip. “I’m—it’s not”—she forced herself to take a deep breath, before she said something else she regretted—“it’s whatever.”

Caleb, from the corner of her eye, nodded. He sat still for a second, before shifting, and for a second there Beau thought the bastard was actually going to get up and leave. She opened her mouth to say something, but then he snapped his fingers, materializing Frumpkin into her lap.

Beau smiled despite herself, despite her shitty fucking attitude, and held him close to her chest. “That’s a neat trick,” she muttered. The words seemed to escape her mouth, without consideration, without a filter.

He raised an eyebrow. “ _Find Familiar_?”

Beau scratched behind Frumpkin’s ears, and stated, again without thinking, again without meaning to, despite her earlier resolve to watch her fucking words, “Using your pet to avoid difficult conversations.” She froze immediately when she realized what she’d said, and cursed her stupid fucking mouth, but when she looked up to clarify, Caleb had already become very still.

He smiled back at her, and it was both biting and weary at the same time. “Is that what you think I’m doing, Beauregard?”

Beau winced. _Fuck_. “Sorry, man.” Her voice was so rough, always so hard. It didn’t use to bother her this much. Or perhaps she had been better at pretending back then. “I’m no good with words.” The justification felt flat, dismissive, as soon as she said it. She and Caleb were always like that, always a moment away from—well, whatever this was. This tension. She wanted to say that she knew how protective of Frumpkin Caleb was, how Caleb held him after battles and would pet Frumpkin distantly until he came back to himself. How during his episodes Frumpkin anxiously circled around him, hissing at anyone who approached. Beau wanted to explain so many things, but she didn’t have the words.

Instead, she settled for, “I know what Frumpkin means to you.”

Caleb tilted his head, and stared slightly right of her. She worried for a second that he would just brush her apology off, ignore her bumbling attempts to connect with him, but then he finally met her eyes fleetingly and said, his voice hesitant and awkward, “I—uh. I wanted to apologize as well. I know I’m not the most enthusiastic drinking buddy.”

Frumpkin purred and nuzzled against her, and she smiled. She wondered if Caleb told him to do that, if he sensed that she needed a hug. “Yeah,” she said. “You do kind of suck.”

He took a sip from his cup that had remained practically untouched until now. “Well,” he said, hesitantly. “You know what they say. Practice makes perfect.”

It was an olive branch if she’d ever seen one. Beau smirked, recognizing and appreciating the effort, and punched his shoulder lightly. “I’m gonna take you up on that, Widogast.”

Caleb hummed to himself lightly. “Ja, I thought you might.” He scratched the back of his head. “Though I can’t imagine why you’d want—uh. Want me. Around.” He winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Beau felt a sudden rush of fondness for him, this man who was so different from her and so, so similar. When Beau was insecure, she became loud, pretended she had something better to do, someone better to meet. She was all fucking bravado. Caleb… he was different. Caleb shrank away, shrank into himself, found something to count, looked for a book to read. Beau understood him better than when she’d first found him, and from Caleb’s offer, however awkward, to stick around and do more pub crawls with her, he understood her better too. She didn’t know when she started finding that encouraging. “You’re my friend, dumbass.” She grabbed his drink and took a huge gulp, and grinned at Caleb’s wrinkled nose. She added, a little softer, “And don’t worry, I get what you mean.” Bastard meant it exactly the way it sounded. It was alright, though. She didn't feel like needling him too hard.

Caleb pushed back his hair, which seemed more red than brown in this light. It was getting close to too long again. “Today, um. Was kind of the worst.”

Beau clenched her shoulder blades at the reminder and felt a sharp jolt of pain. She groaned. “Understatement of the fucking century.” She scratched Frumpkin under the chin, and tried not to beam too much when he leaned into her touch.

Caleb watched her closely. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it again, biting his lower lip.

“Spit it out,” Beau ordered, still enamoured by his familiar. Frumpkin’s fur was impossibly soft.

A pause. Then, “You were very impressive.”

Beau… hadn't expected that. She straightened her back, looked to Caleb’s drink in her hand. “Yeah, well.” She took a huge swig.  “I got knocked the fuck out, but. Other than that.”

Caleb thinned his lips. “Hey.” He waited for Beau to look up. “No _buts_ , Arschloch. You were impressive, period.” He leaned back on his own chair, his book holsters pushed forward slightly. His hand almost absent-mindedly started scratching his left arm. The bandages there were starting to unravel, but he didn’t seem to notice. “It got scary there, near the end. But that final stunning strike, before you collapsed, was absolutely essential. My spells wouldn’t’ve landed if you hadn’t done that.” The bandages were starting to slip away. He coughed, and added, awkwardly, “I know how risky it was for you. It was, um. Very brave.”

Beau blinked, and then blinked again. “Uh.” She sounded rough, brusque, and it made her want to shrivel up. “Well, I—uh. I trust you guys. For what that’s worth.”

Caleb looked slightly right of her again, and that was okay. He was trying, and he was here. “It’s worth a lot, Beauregard.”

She coughed, cleared her throat. Caleb comforting her was… a lot. He doing better than both of them probably anticipated. “Thanks, man.” Beau wasn't very good at accepting compliments, but from his small nod, she imagined she did pretty well. She looked to him, to the fraying bandages. “Fjord told me you used the fire glove on that asshole.”

Caleb’s eyes flicked to his gloved hand resting on the table, then back to her. “You mean the glove of blasting?” His voice had a practiced, artificial flatness to it. The message was clear—he didn't want to talk about it.

Beau shrugged. “Yeah.” She could see Caleb’s back was now straightened, tense. On guard. Beau was realizing, had realized by now, that being a friend meant sometimes having these conversations, regardless of how painful they were. Regardless of their cost. “Yeah, that.”

Caleb lifted his arm, and examined the glove on his hand. “The bastard lit up like the fireworks in Hupperdook. You would’ve enjoyed it.” His casual tone was a warning and a cry for help all at once.

Fjord had told her, in a hushed tone after the worst of her injuries had been healed, that Caleb had become nonverbal, non-responsive, after he’d burned the mobster who’d knocked out Beau to death. How when he’d finally snapped out of it, he wouldn’t leave her side, had given Jester the extra bandages he had stuffed in his bag, as Jes frantically tried to stop Beau’s bleeding.

She felt those bandages now, brushing her hand against her side. “You know,” she said. She tried to make her voice gentle, which was a fucking trip. Caleb looked at her a little disbelievingly, but there was also something else there, like he was grateful for her kindness and hated himself for it. She pushed on regardless, because he was folding into himself, and she couldn’t stand that. “I wanted to thank you, for protecting me. Comforting me.” Frumpkin purred in her lap, and she stroked the top of his head. “And I was, um.” She was no good at this. “Hoping to comfort, and protect, you.” She cleared her throat.

Caleb’s fingers absentmindedly found their way through the bandages. His face was blank, but she could see flashes of… something. He let her admission sit in the silence for a good minute, before clearing his throat and saying, his words a little rushed, “That’s not necessary, Beauregard.” He tried to smile. “Though I admit I feel kind of shitty for reading my book this whole time.”

She felt an unexpected relief and sudden gratitude. Once, having someone see through her would've been a threat. She'd changed so much so quickly, and she'd changed so much for the better. “Good,” she said, and then playfully stuck her middle finger at him.

“Classy,” he said, pretend to clap. He added, after a moment, “The others didn't mean to ditch you tonight. It can be, uh. Hard to help sometimes when the person doesn't know how to ask for it.” There was no judgement in his voice.

Beau tilted her head slightly, fighting her instinctive defensiveness and raising an eyebrow. “Seems like we have that in common.”

Caleb squirmed in that subdued way of his. He didn't want to talk about it today. That was fine. She'd pushed him enough.

Beau fiddled with one of her sashes, and thought through what she wanted to say. “Seriously, though. I’m, uh. Here. We don't have to talk about it. But I'm here.”

He took a deep breath, and she could hear the slightest bit of hysteria to it. He would not want her to acknowledge that. “Beauregard,” Caleb said, haltingly. “You were knocked unconscious. And, no offence, you look like shit.”

“Like you can talk,” she interjected.

He continued on, looking at her with an uncharacteristic vulnerability. “I don’t want you to worry about me.” He continued to scratch his arm, nails digging into his skin. It wasn’t drawing any blood, but it worried Beau all the same. “Please.”

She’d tried to avoid bringing attention to his nervous tic, but now she grabbed his hand, stopping him from scratching too aggressively and actually hurting himself. Caleb looked down and seemed surprised by how the wrappings around his lower left arm had practically unravelled. “I’ll always worry,” she said. “You’re my fucking friend.”

Caleb stared at his bare arm, exhaled slowly, and then began picking up the loose ends and rewrapping. He was slow and deliberate in his movement. Beau felt in that moment both touched that he trusted her enough to do this in front of her, and incredibly protective. She looked around to make sure no one was eyeing them. He said, as she gave a curious onlooker the middle finger, “I’m. So very glad you’re alive, Beauregard.”

“Me too, man.”  Beau finished his drink and smirked. She wondered distantly if this was even remotely close to what having a brother felt like. “We watch each other, okay?”

 _Don’t run_ , she’d said to him once. And he hadn’t.

Caleb smiled back at her, and she could see how grateful he was that she didn’t push him further. They were so fucking similar. “Ja. I can do that.”

Beau searched the bar with her gaze again, this time looking for the barmaid. “Good,” she said, “because you said practice makes perfect and the night is fucking young.”

 

Later, that next morning, when she blearily blinked open her eyes and sat up, she felt Jester immediately pull her into a hug, as if she'd been waiting for Beau to stir awake. “Sorry,” Jes whispered.

Beau knew Caleb must've said something to tip Jester off that she wasn't alright. And she was more comforted than she was angry. And she trusted that he didn't reveal anything she wouldn't’ve wanted Jester to know. She trusted _him_ , period. It was a strange, warm feeling. “It's all good, Jes. Fjord needed you.”

“You were really hurt, though.” There was awe in her voice. “You took so many hits for us, Beau. We have your back." She bit her lip. “Sometimes I forget to check in.”

Beau leaned into Jester, a smile on her lips. “I don’t make it easy.”

Jester giggled. “You and Caleb got to bond, though. You two are like practically siblings.”

“Gross,” she muttered, but she was grinning all the same.


End file.
